


Left In A Sprawl

by fierybeams



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex, Rimming, Threesome - F/F/F, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierybeams/pseuds/fierybeams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plotless smut inspired by <a href="http://fyeahgleeclub.tumblr.com/post/98218339151/uhqs-of-dianna-agron-on-the-set-of-glee">spoilery filming photos</a>. Quinn and Santana re-connect in the locker room post-performance. Brittany joins in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left In A Sprawl

Santana corners Quinn in the now-deserted locker room where she’s sliding her red spankies down her thighs. 

She leans casually against a locker, the cool metal pressing against the bare skin of her arm like a caress. Crossing her arms beneath her tits in that strategic way that pushes them up-up-up, she clears her throat, eyebrows raised and lips pursed suggestively.

Quinn turns just her head, poised and unstartled, the white-blonde shock of her hair hanging over a steady gold-jade eye. She lets the skimpy cloth fall down to her calves, bending forward and lifting a leg up at a time to pull them off and drop them onto the bench beside her, eye trained coolly where Santana stands staring. 

“Can I help you with something?” Quinn’s voice is low and throaty as it ever is, strategic in its practiced detachment. 

Acidic words bubble up like bile in Santana’s throat (instinctual response, but she’s getting better) and she bites them back. She only smiles. 

Quinn laughs softly, teeth bared but eyes unmoving, and she hikes a leg up onto the bench, back curving forward to work absently at the laces of the white sneakers still wrapped around her feet. She watches, smug and knowing, as Santana’s eyes trail down to where the fanned, split fabric of her skirt is furling open, the pale skin of her now half-bare ass peeking through.

When Santana’s gaze ascends back to meet Quinn’s own, she finds her expression changed, a plum-red lip between her white straight teeth. It’s all the permission Santana needs to step gracefully forward, running a fingernail up Quinn’s thigh and beneath her skirt, locating the tail of her thong and tracing the triangular shape of it by feel alone.

“What about Brittany?” The question is quiet, only half-interested as Quinn pushes back, stoic as if she’s  _not_  about to let Santana lap at her. 

“In the shower,” Santana lets her fingertip slide beneath the thin fabric of Quinn’s thong, lingering at the very top of the cleft of Quinn’s ass. “She knows. She saw you pressing up against me out there. Maybe she’ll join us.”

Quinn smiles and turns her head away from Santana, dropping a leg off the bench to press her hands against it instead, the angle of her bend deepening. The strips of material covering her backside ride further up, splits widening until Santana has an open view of one fleshy ass cheek. 

“Well,” Quinn exhales, breath hitching just a fraction when Santana wedges her fingertip fully into the shallow, sweat-warm tip of her crack. “What are  _you_  waiting for?” 

Santana drags the fragmented cloth of Quinn’s skirt up to the base of her spine, groin warming as she stares down at Quinn’s thick ass, the fat mounds of it hugging around the thin string of her ebony-black thong. She presses her finger down hard against the string and tracks it down, smirking when she feels the warm dent of Quinn’s asshole through the fabric and Quinn jerks and gasps in response. Santana moves an expert finger down to the crotch of Quinn’s underwear, rubbing at the cloth-encased split of her pussy lips and cackling at the heavy moisture gathered there.

“Wet already, hmm?” Santana is careful to keep her voice light, knowing all too well how fragile the boundary between affection and violence can be with her and Quinn. 

“Like you aren’t,” comes Quinn’s gruff reply, and she’s getting wetter against Santana’s teasing fingerpads, rutting slightly and breathing hard.

She’s right, of course, as she so often is. Santana’s soaking through the two layers of stifling underwear tightly clinging against her, and has been since their outdoor performance, Quinn’s ass grinding at her thigh and Brittany’s hand at her waist. 

“Thought so,” Quinn huffs, thick and smug, taking Santana’s silence as exactly the confirmation she expected. 

Santana pulls Quinn’s thong down roughly in response, spanking an ass cheek lightly and feeling a jolt in her cunt at the startlingly loud  _smack_  of it hanging in the air. She’s nervous, for just a second, but Quinn moans and arches her back and grunts “ _one more, on the other side_ ” and Santana complies, comfortable again, delighting in the jiggle of Quinn’s soft flesh beneath her hand and the candy-pink splotch blooming over it. 

Santana’s raising a palm again but then Quinn’s declaring “ _no, that’s enough_ ” without even turning around and Santana drops it gently with a squeeze instead, second hand moving to grasp the ample swell of the other cheek as she spreads Quinn open and leers down at the ruddy flush of her shining ass crack, the small black hole nestled shyly at its center and the dripping folds of her pussy just barely visible somewhere beneath. 

Quinn’s squirming, the back of her neck flushed red, thighs trying to part closed and Santana can tell she’s a little embarrassed, on full shining display like this in the bright revealing light of the locker room around them. Santana spreads her fat cheeks further apart and stares with purpose, watching as the moisture at Quinn’s folds thickens and drips lightly down the bulging muscle of her inner thighs.

“Quite a sight, Quinnie,” is all she says, amused but so, so desperate (and she knows Quinn hears that more, because Quinn has always been unsettlingly adept at hearing the truth buried in subterfuge.)

“Santana,” Quinn groans, voice deep and threatening, surprisingly cool considering the sloppy show of her arousal-slick slit. 

Bending forward to bring her face closer, Santana rubs her lips against the left mound of Quinn’s rump, a smear of purple-red lipstick painting over the already slap-pinkened skin. Santana is close enough to  _smell_  her, the mingled sweat and mango-mandarin soap of her parted ass and the wet, strong sweetness of her vagina. 

Santana considers the expanse of erotic skin before her, all its holes and crannies and possibilities, cunt pounding as she remembers how much  _time_  they have, Brittany still in the shower (wet and naked and soaping up her big bouncy tits probably, _oh god_ ) and Quinn insatiable always in her desire (Santana doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the night when a one-time thing became a two-time thing, then a three-time thing, and again and again until they both lost count.)

“I want to eat your ass,” Santana says aloud, bold and sure, thankful Quinn can’t see the darkening of her cheeks in her current position, because Santana has always loved this, loves when Brittany does it to her, loves when Brittany’s begging for it herself, and maybe it’s too much to ask of Quinn right now but she’s been so fixated on her ass beneath that skirt all afternoon and she wants so badly to bury herself within it before moving elsewhere.

“Oh,” Quinn sounds surprised (and that itself feels like a kind of victory), quiet for only a few moments before she’s saying, “okay.” 

Santana moves forward with no more hesitation, heart in her throat, plump lips ghosting over Quinn’s round ass once more before she’s moving to the colored, tender crack, pressing dry kisses in quick staccato downward-moving motions, teasingly skipping the suck of Quinn’s asshole and smirking when Quinn emits a frustrated mewl. As Santana moves lower, the smell of Quinn’s sopping cunt grows stronger, tempting her like a magnetic pull before she wills herself to focus on the task at hand --  _time for that later_ , she reminds herself.

Still holding her up, Santana probes back up with puckered lips, salt-sweat musk and sweet-citrus overwhelming her, rubbing the pointed tip of her nose right at Quinn’s clenching hole and lingering, lingering, lingering until she can feel Quinn tensing, frustrated and about to snap, and she darts her tongue up and out and licks, hard and circular, soft imperceptible-to-the-eye hairs clinging to her tongue as she moves faster and faster and Quinn gasps, moans, then gasps again, pushing back.

Santana takes her time, licking Quinn’s asshole out until there’s saliva dribbling down her chin, Quinn getting notably more sensitive and receptive with every purposeful swipe, the wet muscle of Santana’s hardened tongue coiling her small tight hole open, the noises leaving Quinn’s delectable mouth getting more high-pitched and desperate until finally she’s choking out a plea.

“Inside-- Santana, please, can you--” Her voice is high and thin, all composure and strategy abandoned, and Santana can actually  _feel_  the pool collecting in her panties, thick between her thighs, in response to hearing Quinn so debauched beneath her, hole fluttering at Santana’s tongue and begging for more, more, more…

After only a few more sloppy licks’ worth of teasing, Santana pinches the tip of her tongue into a hard thin nub and pushes in, feeling Quinn’s hole tighten and then release around it, velvety and shockingly hot inside, pulling Santana in like it has a mind of its own, and Quinn is practically screaming now, any fear of being caught abandoned as she squeal-shrieks louder and louder with every plunging centimeter of Santana’s wriggling tongue.

Santana begins pulling her tongue back, then pushing back in, sharp slow fucking motions, and she trails her hands up to Quinn’s slim waist and allows the cheeks of her ass to snap closed around Santana’s face, warm and smothering as Santana works faster and faster, sliding in with increasing ease as Quinn gets more and more loose. 

Gripping at Quinn’s waist, Santana grows cognizant of Quinn’s arm moving against her as Santana continues tongue-fucking her hole, and realizes with a head-buzzing jolt that Quinn’s playing with her own clit, her noises swelling, getting more labored and blissful and Santana remembers from experience that it indicates how close Quinn is to climax.

Tongue wriggling inside her, Santana moves her hand down and between her spread legs to join Quinn’s own hand at her cunt, rubbing near the finger working furiously at Quinn’s clit before she reaches the drenched hole of Quinn’s pussy, sliding two fingers in with almost no resistance at all and scissoring them once inside, twisting toward her navel as she pulls her tongue out of Quinn’s asshole entirely to plunge roughly back in before Quinn’s even had a chance to protest. Santana’s tongue thrusts hard, deep as it can, fingers twisting inside Quinn’s welling pussy and there’s a moment where Quinn inhales, going still for a few stuttering seconds, and Santana knows she’s coming before she even hears her moan and feels the rapid clamp down around her, vaginal walls throbbing down hard and fast in tandem with the rhythmic, softer flutter of her anus.

Santana allows Quinn to ride it out, stilling her tongue and fingers inside of her and only slipping out when Quinn has gone silent, the twitching of her muscles slowing as she drops down against the bench supporting her. Santana pulls away with one more open-mouthed kiss against the high curve of a colored ass cheek, bringing Quinn (boneless, pliant, and breathing hard) up before gently encouraging her to lay down across the bench on her back. 

Quinn complies with a whispered “thank you,” spreading her thighs across it with knees bent, skirt still hiked up and her rose-pink pussy parted between neatly trimmed thatches of light, not-quite-blonde pubic hair. 

Seeing Quinn fucked-out and post-orgasm has Santana suddenly, achingly aware of the relentless, saturated throb between her own legs, so soaked she can smell it, and she’s yanking her briefs and panties down before she’s even sure what she can reasonably ask Quinn to do next. 

She drops two fingers down between her lips and presses at her wet swollen clit, gasping and rolling her eyes back in relief as she moves in hard circular motions against it, fingertip delving deeper into the hood until her thighs are shaking and she can’t even believe how close she is. She’s about to surrender, let herself come fast and lazy, when Quinn interrupts.

“Stop,” she says, sharp, eyes bright, chest and belly heaving. “Come here. Sit on my face.” 

Santana’s surprised to hear her say it, wondering vaguely how much lesbian porn Quinn has devoured since that night of experimentation, but walks over without any hesitation, wetness dripping where her thighs rub against each other. She straddles the bench, poised over Quinn’s glowing face, getting wetter as she looks down to see Quinn staring reverently up at her cunt. 

Quinn brings her hands up to Santana’s hips, fingernails digging into her ass, and slowly guides her down, letting Santana take the lead after a few moments of pull. Santana squats down until she’s hovering just over Quinn’s face, her hot breath against her clit, and holds herself up, careful not to drop too far down, the ache in her thighs from the effort quickly forgotten when Quinn’s tongue flicks up and swipes up her slit, lingering at her clit and moving quickly in sweeping side-to-side then up-and-down motions. Santana’s throwing her head back, moaning shamelessly, streams of fluid gushing down onto Quinn’s face (and if she minds she doesn’t show it, her tongue only growing faster and more persistent) as the pressure at her clit builds, so all-consuming it’s almost painful. 

Rolling her hips to increase the friction of Quinn’s tongue against her, Santana allows her eyes to flutter open and is only slightly started to see Brittany standing a few feet away, naked but for a towel wrapped around her hips, long blonde hair still wet as she watches Santana ride Quinn’s face with a mysterious smile. 

“C-come here,” Santana manages, achingly hungry for her, standing odd and beautiful in that vividly elusive way she has that always makes Santana’s stomach drop. 

Britt walks over, the springy bounce of her round tits somehow even more overwhelming than the wet pressure of Quinn’s tongue sending volcanic waves of leg-trembling pleasure through her, and she immediately skirts a hand up beneath the thick polyester of the cheerleading top still hugging Santana’s torso. She wriggles her palm beneath Santana’s bra to locate and play with a hardened nipple, giggling when Santana’s eyes water and her mouth hangs open, undignified whimpers forming at the back of her throat. 

Quinn’s tongue is still lapping away, and Santana’s half-fearful she’s going to drown or smother her but Quinn is making humming pleased slurping noises that make it sound like there’s nowhere she’d rather be (and that’s performance, Santana knows, but it  _works_ , and between Quinn’s tongue, and her noises, Britt’s hand, and Britt’s  _everything_ , Santana thinks her orgasm, building like a tsunamic crash, might actually send her into cardiac arrest.) 

Britt suckles at her neck, the spot that always makes Santana  _melt_ , and tugs Santana’s top and bra up on her chest high enough to send her heavy breasts bouncing into the exposed air, where Britt drops her face to worship them, taking the right nipple into her mouth and tonguing, sucking, biting while the other gets flicked between two deft fingers.

With each roll down, Quinn’s tongue licks red-hot flares at Santana’s core, emanating up and out and in and  _everywhere_ , and every accompanying thrust up sends her tit deeper into the mouth surrounding it (with Britt, ingeniously mindful of the rhythm, granting Santana a swiveling lick and soft pinch with every other breath.)

Santana feels worshipped, debauched, spread open and  _loved_ , somehow, tongues mouths and fingers working just to get her off, setting her skin alight and waking every nerve ending up, and it’s so much,  _too_  much, and when she feels tears stinging the backs of her eyes she’s free enough to let them fall, whimpering, crying out, accepting Quinn’s thick tongue, then Britt’s mouth, then down and up and down and up again until she’s coming with a nose-running sob, tears trickling, cum trickling, open exposed and so  _connected_  she has to wrap her arm around Britt’s shoulders, feel the soft hard weight of her, to remind herself that this is real, she’s been allowed this, even here, at McKinley, of all places.

She’s moving away from Quinn’s generous face and collapsing into Brittany before the tremors of her soul-splintering orgasm have even subsided, laugh-sobbing and light-headed, feeling reanimated and  _alive_  and capable of anything, utterly in love with Britt and halfway in love with Quinn and all that arduous history that both connects and divides them always. 

The three of them are giggling, half-naked and sloppy and ridiculous; Quinn disbelieving, Santana grateful more than anything, and Brittany simply  _knowing_ , somehow, because she’s always been the sharpest and most sure of any of them. 

“I’ve missed you both,” Quinn confesses, mirth ebbing away into something just as indefinably joyous. “I can’t say I thought  _this_  was the form it’d take, though.” 

“Still plenty of other forms left to try,” Santana responds, a little breathless, face pressed into Britt’s tight torso, back to Quinn, but feeling equally, if differently, attached to both. 

“Hmm, the shower seems as good a place to start as any,” Quinn breathes, moving to sit up, the soft silk of her hair rustling up Santana’s back. 

Santana laughs, and she doesn’t even have to look up to feel the bright smile lighting up Brittany’s face. 


End file.
